


Holding On

by HeyMcRaely



Category: Joker (2019)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyMcRaely/pseuds/HeyMcRaely
Summary: A day watching the world grow wilder, drowning as your love grows deeper.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/You
Kudos: 12





	1. 6PM

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by current events. It was important to me to stay away from any anxiety-inducing language that we're hearing a lot of on the news, lately. Rather, it seems a lot of us are in need of some comforting. Shoutout to the sunset I saw visiting the Joker Stairs.

Murray’s off the air and Arthur’s out of work. There’s been talk of the entire city shutting down. Men on TV are standing at podiums and saying words you’ve only heard in history class before. You know it’s not surprising; people are elbow-to-elbow in Gotham. For better or for worse.

The news is the first thing you hear when you enter the apartment, arms full of library books; you and Arthur have hardly changed the channel since last Monday. But the couch is empty. The coffee table is unused. The lamp is off.

“ _Come here!_ ” is the second thing you hear. Arthur calls your name. A hurried tone. A pluck of panic in your chest. He’s at the living room window, and you dump enough books to hopefully last you the next two weeks onto the counter as you hurry over.

His entire figure is dipped in gold. It makes canyons of his sweater’s wrinkles, a desert of his broad forehead. The light like this, his face looks younger. Less worrisome. He wraps his hands around your shoulders and turns you, your back pressed against his front, your attention redirected out the window. 

The sun is setting. For once, you can’t see any clouds over Gotham. Orange light disentangles creative shadows from every brick and cornice in a dramatic stretch down your street. You feel warm. Arthur’s arms are heavy and protective where they cross over your front. His lips press into the crown of your head. You drag your eyes away from the sky to the sidewalk below. People are slowing to a standstill, grocery bags in arms, faces toward the tangerine light. Others are coming to their windows just like you and Arthur, sticking their heads out. A teenager with a cigarette leans on a fire escape, arm resting on bent knee, watching.

For one single, unextraordinary moment, you are all audience to the changing day, all looking in the same direction, all equally human. It lasts as long as the sun takes to sink behind another building, and then the street is dark again. A draft comes in the window. The people on the sidewalk look down again. The teenager flicks his cigarette. And in the familiar shade your skin cools everywhere except for where it touches Arthur. He squeezes his arms around you and sighs into your hair. He whispers.

“ _I’m glad you’re home_.”


	2. 8PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a dream founded in a video back in 2017 of Heather Baron-Gracie doing Matty Healy's makeup. And probably all the ASMR I've been watching. Special thanks to Hannah for her reading and tips.

The hot water doesn’t last your shower so you shave your legs in the bathroom sink. Door open a crack, steam snapping from the air. Arthur pokes his head in to grab something–maybe just your hand–and gets sight of your ankle on the porcelain before you hop down and push the door shut, giggling _not yet’s._

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he sings through the door. “Dinner” meaning a frozen TV dinner. “Dinner” meaning whatever was left at the supermarket. “Dinner” meaning what you’d planned to be a nice date out at a restaurant before the governor started asking residents to stay home. 

Your makeup is a once-only deal; with the shortage of toilet paper you really can’t risk bleary eyeshadow or smudged lips. You finish one sub-par wing of eyeliner. You huff at your reflection. You’ve never been good at this. But you want to look nice. You saw Arthur had the ironing board out, and a suit laying neatly on the bed. You want to put in the same effort. Arthur…

“Arthur?” you call, suddenly shy. He comes to the door but doesn’t open it until you give your permission. He blinks at you–barefoot in an old dinner dress, all burgundy and fake silk falling like water to your knees.

“You can do makeup, right?” you ask. 

Arthur refocuses. He’s bare-chested, just in his dress pants right now, a cigarette in his fingers. He shuffles over, brow furrowed.

“I can do clown makeup?”

“You’ve been doing it for years, though.” You hand him your liquid eyeliner. “I can’t make these match.”

“I mean, I can–” he moves his cigarette to his lips and speaks through it, “I can try?”

His eyes are uncertain, hands uncomfortable with the smallness of the applicator. He looks at you, almost asking for assurance. 

“I’m going for more mime than circus,” you say.

He breathes out a smoky laugh and shifts his attention to your face. You can see his artistic focus begin to flood in in spite of himself. His eyes dart between your attempt and his blank canvas.

“Close your eyes,” his voice is soft gravel and his words a murmur around the cigarette.

He gently smooths a lock of hair behind your ear and then the side of his hand rests against your temple. You feel the first delicate line. A shuffle. He changes position, draws again. His breath is warm and close, tickling. There’s only the sound of his quiet breathing and the radio on the sill, chattering about school shutdowns and food banks. Arthur pauses to brush his thumb across your cheek.

Finally he gives a little hum and you feel him step away. You blink a couple times. He’s standing with his head tilted, reviewing.

“Just the lipstick left, now,” you say, reaching for the tube of it. Arthur is still watching you, though. Shyness aching in his gaze. You laugh. “Do you want to help me with this?”

He’s instantly in front of you again, stubbing his cigarette out on the sink before taking the lipstick from your fingers and your chin with his thumb. He holds there. Falls quiet. Still. The radio is listing number of deaths. You look up. 

Arthur’s eyes are transparent. Miles deep. Like he’s thinking again about something familiar that overwhelms him every time he lets it, and he’s letting it. 

And then he kisses you. Soft. Somewhere in the thousands. All plush and pink and shower-clean skin. Spreading. Lips slow and easing open and grateful. Grateful. Holding you. Holding him. The radio buzzes statistics and sickness. Heartbeat drowns out the news. He keeps kissing you and you keep kissing him and you don’t stop.


End file.
